


A Fine Line

by Osiria_Rose



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28621431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osiria_Rose/pseuds/Osiria_Rose
Summary: Theobald Gumbar falls in love.Theobald Gumbar falls out of love.
Relationships: Calroy Cruller/Amethar Rocks (Implied), Theobald Gumbar/Amethar Rocks
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonbinarywithaknife (littleboxes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleboxes/gifts).



Falling in love, for Theobald, happened slowly. Love is a subtle thing, it’s tricky, and unexpected, but it’s subtle most of all. It creeps into everything you do, everything you _are_ , until every thought has just a little bit of heartache in it. That’s why, when Theobald Gumbar recognized his love for himself, it felt more than a little bit like missing a step on a set of stairs and tumbling the rest of the way down. You see, it’s not as though he wasn’t already on the staircase, already on his way down. The love was there, had been there for longer than he could know, but to _notice_ … that can take awhile. And when it finally hits you, it feels jarring, sudden, feels like it’s something new even though it’s been there the whole time. 

Theobald is well aware of his own limitations. Knows he’s inexperienced and softhearted. Know’s he’s overzealous in his desire to learn, to serve the royal family to the best of his ability. Knows he trails after Lazuli like a lost puppy. But what is he, if not his work? A person is as they do, and Theo intends to do as he must. 

“Sir Theobald?” A hesitant hand grasps his elbow. Theo turns and sees Prince Amethar’s elderly tutor, hunched over his candy cane. He trembles, ever so slightly, and when he folds both hands overtop his cane, there’s a subtle vibration that reverberates through the floorboards.

“Is there something wrong, Goodman Godeiva?”

“Well…” Godeiva looks askance. “It’s the Prince again, I’m afraid. He hasn’t been attending his tutoring sessions. I worry for him, is all, with how lax he has been in his studies. Could you escort him to my study? He’s fond of you, I’ve heard.”

“Fond of me?” Theo blurts, a slight heat rising on his cheeks. “I’m not quite sure that’s the case, Goodman, and though I appreciate the flattery I assure you there’s no need to ingratiate yourself to me. I live to serve, after all.”

“You do indeed, Sir Theobald,” His eyes crinkle at the edges. “and I’ve never seen a knight more worthy of the title. Now, fetch our wayward Prince for me, would you? I’m certain you’ll have better luck than I.” 

“At least allow me to help you back to your study, Goodman.”

Godeiva waves him off with a polite smile, “No need, these old bones got me this far, I’m sure they can get me down the hall, at least. I wish you luck finding him, Sir Theobald; for someone of his stature, His Royal Highness can be quite sneaky when he’s dodging his lessons.” He laughs, ambling away without further comment.

“That he is,” Theo mutters bitterly. It takes him barely ten seconds to conclude that Prince Amethar is almost certainly at the training grounds, as he generally always is at this time of day. And that’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it? Theo struggles to comprehend how the prince can dedicate himself so thoroughly to something utterly unrelated to his princely duties. 

As expected, the prince is practicing his swordplay. Also expected is his weapon of choice. As of late he’s been favoring the largest broadsword present in the barracks—blunted for training purposes, naturally. It doesn’t look… _terrible_. Theo concedes that most of the other, smaller swords in the armory would look rather ridiculous in the hands of someone so large. 

Theo shakes his head, mentally reprimanding himself for focusing on Amethar’s choice of weapon rather than why he felt the need to pick one up at all. It makes little sense to Theo. How does someone with so many responsibilities, and so many opportunities to learn, simply refuse to attend to his duties? Refuse to capitalize on his position? Theo would be nowhere, no _one_ , if not for the chance he was given to take up post in the castle. If Prince Amethar rejects his duties, then what does that make him? If Amethar refuses to be a prince, refuses to be a scholar, a royal, then what is he?

Amethar slashes through air, again and again, a gleam in his eye that Theo is seldom witness to. 

...A soldier? Theo nearly scoffs. The prince, a _soldier_? Surely he wouldn’t dream of such a thing.

Theo watches, again, as Amethar heaves the massive broadsword up and swings it mightily down, unhesitatingly cleaving in two the imaginary enemies in his path. 

Surely…

Lunges forward with all his weight, thrusting the sword through the chest of a practice dummy, laughing fiercely as he withdraws the blade. 

He wouldn’t simply reject his princely title to be a common soldier?

The grin on Amethar’s face is wide and full of teeth, practically verging on feral, and yet… 

It’s happy. His chest tightens, and suddenly he’s unsure. The Prince must attend his lessons, but is the happiness of the royal family not also part of his duties as their ward?

“Prince Amethar,” Theo says, almost regretting having to interrupt the prince when he looks so overjoyed, “I was under the impression that you’re meant to be in tutoring?” 

He catches Amethar mid-swing, and he startles, his blade lodging in a dummy. Abashed, he turns towards Theo, letting out the nervous laugh of someone who knows they’ve been found out. 

“Theo! Great seeing you.” His eyes flick to and away from the sword. “What, uh, what’ve you been up to?” 

Theo tries not to feel too pleased at the personal form of address from His Royal Highness and crosses his arms, attempting to be stern, “Looking for you, it seems, My Prince. I’m meant to escort you to your lessons.” 

Amethar doesn’t scowl, but his smile dims, becomes tense and irritated. 

“You know that kind of thing isn’t for me, Theo.”

Withholding himself from putting a comforting hand on the prince’s shoulder, Theo says, “At the risk of sounding—” Bossy? Commanding? _Him_? To the _Prince_? He clears his throat. “Well. I know it’s not exactly what you want to hear, but I really do think your lessons could be of great value to you.”

Amethar grumbles something he can’t hear and dislodges the sword, not looking at him. 

“I just can’t wrap my head around it, all that academic stuff. Being cooped up in that awful little study with some stuffy old tutor. I hate it.” Confident grin back in place, he meets Theo’s gaze. “Besides, it’s not like I’m gonna need to know any of this anyway, I’ll never be king.”

Theo would never be so crude as to imply the possibility of Amethar’s entire immediate family dying, but—

“I agree that it is unlikely you’ll ever rule, but even as a prince you would still have valuable duties, would you not?”

Amethar makes a dismissive noise and starts swinging the sword again. Overextends once, twice, a third time. Missteps there, and again. There’s no rhyme or reason to his form, and each attack is overly forceful and without the slightest finesse behind it. Although he may be able to compensate somewhat with the sheer amount of raw strength he puts into each strike, it’s obvious even to the untrained eye—which Theo is not, thank you very much—that the prince has had no formal training in the art of swordplay. Which, of course, does not seem to particularly matter to Amethar. To any potential enemies, however… 

“I could teach you, My Prince, if you’d like.” It’s out of his mouth before he’s fully thought it through, though it’s almost worth it when it catches the prince so off guard that he stumbles mid-way through a complex maneuver he must’ve seen Theo himself practicing. It is significantly _less_ gratifying when Amethar trips on his own shoes—honestly, practicing swordplay in _those_ , Theo will need to get him a more suitable pair—and tumbles forward onto his own blade. 

“My Prince!” Theo rushes to him, helping Amethar off the ground and frantically checking him for wounds, hands roaming about his torso in search of blood, or torn cloth, or—

Amethar grabs Theo’s hands in his, giving him a slight shake. 

“Theo, I’m fine! I landed on the flat of the blade. It’s blunted, anyway.” 

Theo looks up, sparing a frantic thought at how strange it is to have found someone taller than him, and nearly melts at the wide, wide smile on his face. Feels his heart skip a beat from being subjected to such impassioned, devoted attention, from the _prince_ , no less. 

“Do you… you’d really do that? Teach me?” It’s a pale exclamation, spilling from Amethar’s lips in one, disbelieving exhale. 

Just as quietly, Theo breathes out, “Of course, My Prince, I would never be dishonest with you. On my honor, however, I cannot disobey my orders to escort you to your tutoring session.”

Amethar blinks, dropping his hands in surprise, and steps away, a distinct look of betrayal on his face. 

“After every session, we’ll practice your swordplay. And _only_ if you attend your lessons.”

The prince grumbles but ultimately agrees after Theo refuses to budge and does, in fact, allow Theo to escort him to that day’s lesson.

It works, for a while. The weeks pass. Amethar reluctantly attends his lessons and eagerly meets Theo on the castle training grounds afterwards. Theo is certain this is the happiest Amethar has been in all the time he’s spent as Lazuli’s ward.

It works, until it doesn’t. Amethar stops attending his tutoring sessions, needles Theo until they spar five times a week instead of three, and Theo can’t say no, can’t bear to take away the prince’s greatest joy, especially when he’s a part of it. He knows this will be detrimental in the long run. Knows it will only hurt Amethar when he has duties to tend to and he’s unable even to write missives, or to review the kingdom’s records. 

The line between duty and devotion is a thin one, and, well. Theobald Gumbar has never been able to keep his heart out of his work. So he lets Amethar run circles around him, lets him skip his lessons, and selfishly relishes the flutter in his chest every time Amethar smiles. All the while Theo sits back and lets him jeopardize his own future.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“I worry I’m not doing right by him.” It’s one afternoon of countless many he’s spent with Lazuli in her study. “Should I have refused to teach him? I want him to be able to defend himself,” he raises a finger, imperiously, “though I still think he shouldn’t have to!” It wilts and he curls both hands around his teacup, the tea contained within cold and untouched. “But all he’s spoken about lately has been the war… I’m frightened for him. I know I won’t be able to stop him, when he decides to fight.” The teacup cracks ominously under the force of his hold, threatening to shatter. Wouldn’t be the first time Lazuli had Mended one of her teacups after it fell victim to Theo’s nerves.

A wave of Lazuli’s hand seals the cracks for the umpteenth time. 

“I think,” she begins, a serene expression on her face, just this side of stern, “that you’re doing what you can. ” She snaps her fingers, because for all that she won’t admit it Lazuli is a dramatic at heart, and wisps of steam rise from Theo’s tea. “And you’re right. Amethar will fight, of that I have no doubt; I’ve not witnessed a single timeline where he still lives that he doesn’t. Now drink your tea, Theo.”

Theo takes an obliging sip and hopes Lazuli can’t tell how badly his hands are shaking. The way she politely directs her gaze to her own teacup tells him she probably can, and is allowing him time to regain his composure.

After several minutes of drinking their tea in silence, Theo sets his cup down. 

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You can do what you’ve always done.” Lazuli rises from her seat across from him and settles her hand on his shoulder, smiling, and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Amethar will need a grounding force in his life, someone to guide him, to be his voice of reason. I trust you, more than anyone else, to be that for him, Theobald.” She lets the declaration hang in the air. “Can you do that for me?”

“Of course, Archmage,” Theo agrees, “anything you ask.” 

“Lazuli.” 

His gaze flits to her own in his surprise, and he quickly lowers it again.

“I’m… afraid I don’t understand, Archmage.”

“Look at me, Theobald.” Reluctantly, he does. “In here, we are equals. I’m not asking you to look after my little brother as your mentor, I’m asking as your _friend_ , alright?”

Struggling not to yield in the face of her intense stare, he says, “Of course, Lazuli.”

She gives his shoulder a final squeeze and lets go.

Theo wrestles his tone of voice into something light, “With myself and his sisters, I’m sure we can offer him plenty of guidance!” The positive outlook he cobbled together crumbles into pieces when he sees Lazuli’s smile waver. 

“The four of us will be rather busy once the war begins, unfortunately, so I’m asking you to watch over Amethar for us, just for a little while.”

A tendril of unease curls down his spine.

“Rococoa will undoubtedly assign the both of you to the same squadron, so you’ll be fighting alongside him in every battle.”

“And you won’t be, right?”

If Lazuli is surprised by his sudden desperation, she doesn’t show it.

“My talents are best put to use elsewhere, Theobald, you needn’t worry about me.”

He settles, though still not fully at ease.

“That’s good to hear,” he says, trying to believe her, “I’m glad you’ll be staying safe.”

The war comes to Candia. He knew it would, yet still Theo clung to the fragile hope that it could be resolved without Candian interference. 

Theo fights. For Candia, for the royal family, for Prince Amethar. There’s no way out for him and he wouldn’t wish it for the world, honored beyond words for a chance to defend his great nation, and to protect the royal family who moulded him into the man he is today. Theo would have fought regardless of his own feelings on the matter, as he is duty-bound to do so. The prince does not need to fight. The prince is not _meant_ to fight. It doesn’t—Theo doesn’t _get it_ , doesn’t understand why Amethar would put himself at risk when there’s truly no need. His siblings—who must have taken all the common sense before Amethar could get his hands on any—are staying off the front lines, at least. Rococoa, a general she may be, is an incredible strategist first and foremost, and so puts her skills to good use and keeps herself out of harm's way. Princess Sapphria, as well, keeps out of the fighting and instead is off gathering valuable intel in the Meatlands. Saint Citrina and Archmage Lazuli are staying the safest out of all of them, from what he’s been told, for which Theo is endlessly grateful. 

Amethar is choosing to fight on the front lines because he wants to. There’s no one forcing him. He’s not fighting for honor, or freedom, or peace. Amethar wants to fight, so he will. There’s no complex thought behind it, no consideration for his family, for Theo, and how they’d feel if he were to fall in battle so _senselessly_ , only the simple desires of a bored prince. 

It’s _infuriating_.

A part of Theo resents Amethar. Loathes the way he finds more joy in the frenzied slaughters his battles devolve into than he ever has with Theo. So Theo resolves to be by his side for every step of the way. Not only to protect him—which he does, fear and fury mounting in equal measure with every spear deflected by the Battlepop, every arrow that ricochets off the platemail that _Amethar doesn’t have_ —but also to cement himself in Amethar’s world as a part of what brings him such bloody, unhinged glee. If the prince has found his calling, Theo would give all that he is to be a part of it.

It’s not awful, really. They’re spending time together, at least. Theo doesn’t particularly _like_ the gleam in Amethar’s eyes nowadays, but Candia is an invaluable member in the war effort and he can only hope that, with their help, the war will end soon. He’s afraid of what will happen if it doesn’t.

Theo is at his desk—technically Amethar’s, but when has Amethar willingly sat at a _desk_ —when the prince introduces him.

“Theo, there’s someone I’d like you to meet!” Amethar brazenly pushes aside the flaps of their tent, another man at his side. 

Hurriedly, Theo covers the sensitive documents sent from General Rococoa and rises from his seat.

Slinging an arm across the other man’s shoulders, Amethar gives the both of them a winning grin and says, “Theo, this is Cal.” 

Cal isn’t a particularly imposing figure. He’s over a head shorter than Theo and Amethar both, and he’s whip-lean, clearly an expert in speed or stealth, possibly both, rather than possessing any sort of brute strength. Superimposed onto his dark skin are three pale stripes that stretch across his handsome, almost boyish, face. His pink, curly hair is barely long enough to fall across his forehead, appearing as though he constantly has to reach up to brush it back. He holds himself with a countenance that’s entirely polite, verging on gentle, all while fully leaning against Amethar’s side. It’s all almost enough to take the attention away from the emptiness behind his eyes. 

“Calroy Cruller, nice to meet you.” Calroy slips away from Amethar with an absent pat on his arm, extending his hand to Theo with the bland smile of a practiced politician. “And you are?”

Theo takes the hand, grasping it just hard enough to hurt and gives it one, firm shake before letting go. Although he isn’t so petty as to wipe his hand on his tunic, he pointedly does not return the smile. “Sir Theobald Gumbar, Lord Commander of the Tart Guard, Sworn Knight of the Order of North Gumbia.” 

Calroy must notice, because for the first time a spark of interest lights his expression, magenta eyes glittering with something that has Theo longing for the feel of the Battlepop in his hand. His smile grows sharp, and he slinks back to Amethar’s side, makes sure to catch Theo’s eye before putting an arm around the prince’s waist. 

“Where’d you find this one, Amethar? Doesn’t seem your type.” 

Amethar chokes on a laugh. “Who? Theo? He’s a bodyguard for the royal family.”

Theo tries not to feel slighted and hopes that Amethar is only simplifying their relationship for the sake of their company. “It’s late. we all ought to get some rest before the expedition tomorrow.”

“I agree,” Calroy says, pinning him with a shrewd gaze, “why don’t I walk with you to your tent, Sir Theobald? Let the prince have some privacy.” 

Theo hesitates. He does… _technically_ , have his own tent, but Calroy would have to be a fool not to notice the myriad of items scattered about Amethar’s tent that obviously do not belong to him.

Amethar scoffs, “What do you mean? Theo sleeps in here with me. Actually, you’re on the other side of camp, aren’t you, Cal? You should spend the night here!” He looks pleased, pulling Calroy flush against his side—though he’d never strayed far in the first place—all the while Theo is struggling to keep a straight face because _You cannot just say things like that, my prince!_

Even Calroy, for all that he’d been deliberately needling them, is watching on with a startled expression. Carefully, he extricates himself from Amethar’s hold.

“That’s… a kind offer, and one I do appreciate, but I really should be going. It’s like Sir Theobald said, we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” 

“Are you sure?” Amethar sounds vaguely disappointed and Theo tries not to seethe. “With our beds pushed together I’m sure there would be enough room for you.” He pauses, glancing between himself and Theo. “Or, maybe not. I could sleep on the floor if you needed.” 

“My prince,” Theo says sternly, though whether it’s meant for Amethar or Calroy he’s not entirely sure, “you will most certainly _not_ be sleeping on the floor. If anyone would sleep on the floor it would be me.” 

“Of course not,” Calroy cuts in, a hand daintily pressed to his chest, “I would be the one imposing on the two of you, the least I could do was stay out of your space.”

“I really must insist you let me take the floor, Calroy.” Theo hastens to say, then immediately bites his tongue. 

Calroy shoots him a victorious smile, “So eager, Sir Theobald?”

“Apologies,” Theo chokes out, “I forgot for a moment that you would be returning to the barracks for the night.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Calroy waves him off, “I’ll see you both in the morning.” He leaves without another look in Theo’s direction, pausing at the door to grace Amethar with a look that could almost be called warm. 

Something in Theo’s chest sours. 

Once he’s sure Cruller is well and truly out of earshot—peeking outside their tent for good measure—he says to Amethar, “Permission to speak freely, my prince?” 

Amethar turns his smile on Theo, where it promptly shifts into something a little different. Hopefully a good different, though he can’t be sure, even after years of Amethar’s company.

“You don’t need to ask, Theo.” He speaks from low in his chest, a deep rumble of rolling thunder that never fails to set Theo on edge, for one reason or another. 

Theo clears his throat, “Are you certain Calroy Cruller is someone you should…” He stumbles over the wording, a bitterness spilling across his tongue, “...associate with? He seems somewhat dishonest, if I may be so frank.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Amethar’s brows furrow, pleased smile falling away, surprise and irritation rising to replace it, “I thought you told me to focus on making more friends.”

His suggestion had been more along the lines of ‘fostering amicable relations with our allies’ so as to encourage loyalty and friendly ties to the royal family. A friend of the prince would be quicker to jump to his defence in battle than any common soldier, after all. And while Theo is glad Amethar took his advice to heart, of all people to befriend, why did it have to be _Calroy Cruller_? Although Theo may not have known him before today, that did nothing to soften the impression he got from that man. It practically _screamed_ trouble. The message couldn’t have been clearer if Cruller himself professed his desire to get on the prince’s good side to further his own political machinations. 

“I did, my prince, I’m only wary of his intentions towards you. He rubs me the wrong way, is all.” He inhales deeply, registers the quickly growing, thunderous expression on Amethar’s face, regrets the words before he’s said them, then says them anyway, “I think it would be better if you stayed away from him.” 

“I don’t _get_ you, Theo. I don’t know what you want from me,” Amethar mutters, sneer melting into something softer, resigned.

At once feeling the nausea of rejection churning in his gut, Theo says quietly, “My prince?”

Silence reigns, Amethar refusing to spare Theo a glance, “Let’s go to bed.”

“...Yes, my prince.”

Theo learns not to mention Cruller. 

He’s at his desk when the letter arrives, Amethar polishing Payment Day across the room, fresh from an expedition to the Dairy Islands. A harried messenger bursts through the flaps of their tent.

“Prince Amethar, an urgent message for you!” They reach into their satchel and withdraw a letter, practically shoving it into Amethar’s hands before hastening to exit the tent. 

From between the small gaps in the tent’s opening, he sees them mount a meep and set off again, clearly delivering important news. He eyes the letter in Amethar’s hands with trepidation, a shiver of dread wracking his frame. 

“Should I—?”

“Read it.” Amethar presents it to him, a nervous curiosity in his gaze.

Theo takes the letter, the anxiety rising to new heights when he notices the simple address scrawled in a quick, messy script on the front of the envelope: ‘ _Amethar_ ’. Not ‘Prince Amethar’, not ‘His Royal Highness Prince Amethar Rocks’, just ‘Amethar’. From one of the princesses, then? 

“Who’s it from?”

Theo purses his lips, scans the entire front and back of the envelope and finds nothing else.

“I don’t know, it doesn’t say.”

Amethar says nothing, only making a confused noise and gesturing for him to open the letter. 

He does. 

The envelope lacks even a wax seal, and the cheap twine holding it closed yields easily under his fingers, faintly trembling though they are. The letter itself, when he removes it from the envelope, is written on a short, uneven length of parchment. 

The dread lingering in the air takes hold of him by the end of the first line.

‘ _Lazuli is dead._ ’ No preamble, no nothing. There’s a substantial blot of ink directly beside the first word and he finds himself imagining, rather hysterically, the writer holding their quill over the page, deliberating over how to deliver such sensitive news long enough to have allowed so much ink to accumulate. They must have decided there would be nothing to say that could possibly have softened the blow, and they were right. Three little words and Theo could swear he felt as though he was physically struck. 

He keeps reading.

‘ _It was her decision. She risked herself in order to ensure Candia an ally in Fructera. Count Jacques Tomaté has been unseated, and Lazuli has cemented Gustavo Uvano in his place as new ruler of Fructera. He has promised us his cooperation in the war effort._

‘ _I’m sorry I couldn’t save her._

 _‘—Rococoa_ ’ 

The letter crumples, nearly rips, with how hard he’s shaking, and he’s only dimly aware of the tears staining the already ragged paper, from both himself and older ones from Rococoa. 

“What does it say?”

Theo’s head snaps up, having forgotten about Amethar’s presence entirely. It takes him a moment to fully register what he said, a thick fog of grief fast descending upon him.

“Theo, what happened?” There’s a hard note to his voice that Theo has trouble deciphering.

“I… it’s Lazuli,” he chokes out, struggling to hold back the worst of his sobs, breathing harsh and uneven.

Amethar leans over the desk and grabs his shoulders, giving him a hard shake that has Theo absently wishing he was still wearing his plate mail.

“Is she okay?”

Mutely, Theo shakes his head, teary eyes still glued to the letter. Eventually, he can no longer bear to feel Amethar looming over him and raises his head to meet Amethar’s intense stare.

“...Dead,” he whispers, barely a breath yet Amethar must have heard him for his eyes widen, then narrow in fury. 

Without a word, he grabs Payment Day and leaves their tent, seemingly taking all the warmth with him. 

He should go out there, be with the prince in his time of need…

But what about Theo? What about _his_ time of need? If there ever was a time Theo needed anything, it would be now, and it’s not as though he’s asking much. All he needs is just… a moment. A moment to himself, a moment to grieve. To let it sink in that his closest friend and confidant is gone, because however much he treasures his and Amethar’s connection—uncertain though he is on what to call it—his relationship to Lazuli has always felt more stable. There was a calmness, an inherent comfort with Lazuli in a way that Amethar can’t compare.

Dead.

Lazuli isn’t off galavanting with the Order, isn’t holed up in her laboratory, isn’t in a meeting with Rococoa, isn’t debating Citrina or having lunch with Sapphria. Isn’t _anywhere_. 

Theo only needs a moment. He needs one, measly little evening to let himself let Amethar exist separately from him. One moment where he lets himself put aside his knighthood. Lets himself be _Theo_. 

And Theo misses his friend. 

Sapphria is next, though it is less a direct letter but rather a lack of them that clues them in to her demise. Communication cut off from her suddenly and without warning. They do, eventually, receive another letter from Rococoa, just as brief and tear-stained as the first, detailing how they found her remains in the Meatlands, weeks after her death. It’s more of a courtesy than anything else; they knew. There was no use hoping otherwise when the evidence was there. 

When Citrina dies, word travels quickly, given that she was run down in the streets of Comida after Belizabeth Brassica declared her a heretic. They send a team to retrieve her body from where she was left in the street, Brassica rumored to have forbade anyone from moving her. She’s buried next to her sisters when they can spare a few days to travel back to the palace. 

The death knell tolls louder with each missive they receive, until finally—

“Rococoa is dead.”

Amethar is king. 

The war is over.

And they are both emptier than they’ve ever been.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

They’re not happy. Or, Amethar isn’t, burdened as he is by a crown he’s both unsuited and unwilling to wear. Theo, meanwhile, is mostly just glad for what has been promised to be an era of peace, all while still clinging to Lazuli’s last request. 

The days are simultaneously frantic yet monotonous, every day the same; Theo helping Amethar to reconsolidate the workings of Candia and of the palace under the newly established Concord. Though it’s less helping and more explaining what he’s doing while trying to coax some kind of opinion out of the man who’s meant to be king.

The monotony is disrupted, at last, by Amethar’s marriage to Caramelinda Meringue, Lazuli’s widow—and by the Bulb if that doesn’t _sting_ , as if either of them needed another reminder of their failures. 

It’s not difficult to tell that she resents them both. Theo appreciates her nonetheless, however, if only for her much needed help in running the kingdom. He glances up at her from where they’re sorting through various missives, seated directly opposite each other, then looks back down before she notices.

“Is something wrong, Theobald?”

Drat. 

He sighs, breath rustling the abundance of paperwork strewn out in front of him. “Nothing that we could solve, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, don’t be so sure!” And then there’s _him_ , who, for whatever reason, is still here. “We’re all pretty competent, I’d say.” Cruller swirls the contents of his glass. “Wouldn’t you agree, Caramelinda?”

“If we weren’t we wouldn’t be here,” she mutters bitterly, lips pursed.

'Here' she said. In the study, immersed in an ever-growing collection of missives and pressing matters? In the castle, cavorting amongst royalty? Alive and safe, existing peacefully in a nation freed from the clutches of war? ...And if he's not 'here'—in whichever nebulous manner of speaking one might imagine—then where is Amethar? 

“You see, Theobald?" Theo snaps to attention. "Now tell us what’s wrong already, would you?” 

Every conversation with Cruller that he’s suffered through has been, and will continue to be, the most patronizing experiences of his life.

“It’s about King Amethar—”

“That and everything else,” Cruller cuts in, mumbling into his glass.

Theo doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response. 

“I’m worried about him. He hasn’t exactly…” Theo makes a vague gesture with his hands. “ _Taken_ all that well to being king.”

Cruller is the only one of them undignified enough to scoff, and he does so, gladly.

“You don’t say? Let’s face it, if it weren’t for the three of us, Candia would be in ruins by now,” he says, laughing into his goblet as he takes a _long_ sip of what Theo hopes is cola, but probably isn’t. 

Theo pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to will away the migraine he can already feel building.

“I only wish there were something we could do to help ease him into the more practical aspects of the kingship. It’s a shame I couldn’t persuade him to attend his lessons for more than a few weeks, before the war.”

A subtle tension wracks Caramelinda’s otherwise calm demeanor, her folded hands shaking.

“I’ve tried to convince him to learn how to read,” she grouses, frustration clear in her voice, as much as her expression has yet to betray her, “He refused, as he has everything else that wasn’t fighting.”

“Well,” Cruller demures, coyly pretending to sift through the missives in front of him, “Not _everything_.” 

Theo bristles, snatching away Cruller’s goblet just as he’s about to take another sip. He sniffs at what little fluid remains in the glass. It’s wine, as he suspected, yet it’s familiar, somehow. 

“Is this…” he pins Cruller with an incredulous stare, “Is this _mine_?” 

“Is it? I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Amethar brought it up for me yesterday.”

A hairline fracture appears along the length of the glass, and with an aching heart he's forced to remember that, this time, there's no Lazuli to Mend it with a wave of her hand. He hates Cruller all the more for the reminder. In the dim regions of his consciousness, he wonders if Caramelinda knows Mending, and if she'd ever be willing to repair his broken tea cups when his emotions got the better of him. She must, mustn't she? Lazuli had to have taught her a number of magics, just as she had tried to teach him. Whatever the case, the crack remains, and he pushes the thought aside for later examination, clinging somewhat desperately to the defensive fury in his chest instead.

“ _King_ Amethar.”

“If you haven’t noticed, Amethar prefers to be addressed informally.”

Oh, he's noticed alright. Knows intimately Amethar's abject disgust and borderline _denial_ of everything pertaining to his kingship and royal duties. Has to keep from biting his tongue each and every time Amethar scowls in reaction to his litany of 'My King's and 'His Majesty's. Very nearly wishes he could only _stop_. Stop insisting. Let Amethar flee the castle and live as he has always wanted. 

But as much as he wants Amethar to be happy, he knows that isn't possible. 

Perhaps sensing the rising tension in the room, Caramelinda stands, primly raising a hand to silence them both.

“It’s getting rather late, don’t you think? Let’s adjourn for the night. We’ll continue this tomorrow. Calroy?” Cruller makes an inquiring noise. “I think it would be for the best if I were to escort you to your quarters.”

“My queen, shouldn’t I—?”

“Theobald, I would like to see him alive come morning, it would do you well to go and clear your head.”

“...Yes, my queen.”

He watches as they walk, arm-in-arm, down the corridor to Cruller’s room in the Lower West Wing, which is meant for housing _temporary_ guests. Unfortunately Cruller had apparently neglected to take the hint, so Theo would have to be content that the guest wing is essentially as far as one can get from King Amethar’s quarters. 

For safety reasons.

_Right._

Well, Cruller can’t exactly have… _relations_ with the king if Theo is already with him, now can he? That thought in mind, Theo pivots and heads to the Upper East Wing, long strides affording him good time. In minutes, he’s in front of Amethar’s door, hand poised to knock.

After a moment’s hesitation, he does, urging himself to act despite the lack of light spilling out from under the door. As much as the dutiful knight in him balks at the thought of disturbing his majesty, this feels… _important_. 

A voice sounds from the other side, sounding vaguely like, “Come in!” though it’s hard to tell. Theo takes his chances, pushing the door open slowly to reveal Pri— _King_ Amethar sat up under his comforters, illuminated only by the dim candlelight coming from the hallway. A little twist of guilt manifests in his stomach at having woken him up.

The twist shifts abruptly when Amethar speaks, eyes squinted shut in a yawn as he stretches, and Theo has the impression that his stomach has been ripped clean out.

He’s still half-asleep, slumping forward onto the mound of blankets at his disposal, words barely audible mumbled into the fabric, “Not tonight, Cal.”

Theo hoped Cruller was joking, albeit cruelly, to get under his skin. It worked every time, so he kept doing it, and that was all. He hadn’t thought he was being _genuine_ for once. Theo grits his teeth.

“When you married Queen Caramelinda...” he begins, trying and failing not to feel like Amethar had betrayed him, personally, rather than his actual wife.

Amethar jolts up, sleep leaving him in an instant, “Theo—!”

“When you married her, I didn’t mention what we had.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “ _Before_.” Before Caramelinda, before Cruller, before Amethar was cursed by that horrid crown that he never should’ve been bestowed in the first place. “I was willing to let it die.” 

“Theo, it never…” Amethar swings his legs over the side of the bed, drops the heap of blankets cocooning him to make his way to Theo. Cautiously, he puts his hands on Theo’s shoulders, as though unsure if it would be welcome. Theo doesn’t shrug him off, a shiver wracking through him as those hands slide down to grip his biceps, relishing in the familiarity with a burning intensity. How long has it been?

“It never stopped. At least,” he doesn’t meet Theo’s gaze, “it didn’t for me.”

Amethar’s skin is warm and unyielding, a flush rising to his cheeks that would have been unnoticeable if not for the heat under Theo’s fingertips. He lets Amethar hold him there, to pull him closer until they’re nearly chest to chest.

“I don’t want you to break your oath for me,” he says softly, one hand cupped tenderly along Amethar’s face, ignoring the fact that Amethar already broke his oath for that Cruller wretch, so it wouldn’t make much of a difference if he did so again. He’s sure Caramelinda doesn’t particularly care for Amethar or their marriage, so if there’s anyone she wouldn’t mind giving her husband to, surely it would be Theo. _If you broke your oath for anyone, shouldn’t it have been me?_

He shakes his head, caught off-guard by the sheer _gall_ of his own thoughts, and makes to leave. 

But Amethar takes his hand before he can withdraw it, wraps an arm around him before he can step away.

Their breath mingling together, Amethar says to him, “Do you love me, Theo?”

Theo forgets to breathe, the answer rising within him entirely unbidden, as much an ingrained reflex as donning his armor, as penning his name, “Of course, my king.” _With everything I am._

Amethar relaxes, leaving Theo wondering what he could have possibly done to make his majesty think otherwise. As much as their bond went largely unspoken, it was _there_. Undeniably, irrevocably present in everything they did. Every sparring session, every battle, every late night of Theo reading to His Majesty the growing collection of missives that needed answering, every stroke of his pen on Amethar’s behalf. Every action, no matter how inconsequential or monumentous, that was love. 

When Amethar kisses him, chaste and hesitant as their first, he lets it happen.

  
  



End file.
